“Tell him we were asking for him, will you?”
“I’ll be sure to.”
There seemed nothing further to say.
Carella was wondering if they had enough on Biggs to justify an arrest warrant and extradition from Texas. Ollie was thinking he would like to ask this little white-haired son of a bitch if he knew that Biggs had introduced Cassandra Ridley to his friend Frank Holt, who’d paid her two hundred thousand dollars to fly dope up from Mexico. He wanted to ask him if maybe Biggs had athird job besides sales rep and Texas Ranger, and could that third job possibly be smuggling drugs? He wanted to suggest that if one of Halloway’s sales reps was fucking with drugs down in Mexico then maybeanother of his reps was doing the same thing up in Diamondback, which was maybe what had got him killed. Ollie wanted to scare the shit out of Halloway, was what he wanted. Sometimes, if you scared them hard enough, they jumped the wrong way.
The silence lengthened.
“Well,” Carella said, “thanks for your time. We appreciate it.”
“Andthe delightful repast,” Ollie said, and stuffed some Fig Newtons into his jacket pocket.
They were walking out of the Headley Building, toward the square across the street with its statue of William George Douglas Rae, the gentleman scholar who had captivated the heart of the city with his grace, his charm, and his sparkling wit, when Ollie said, “What do you think? Is the flyboy’s word enough for an arrest warrant?”
“What flyboy?”
“Cass Ridley’s brother in Germany.”
“Depends on what judge we get.”
“You think Halloway’s in on this?”
“In on what?”
“On whatever the fuck itis.”
“If he is, we’ve got him thinking.”
“We shoulda scared him more.”
“I think we scared him enough,” Carella said.
But Halloway’s bad day was just beginning.
THE DETECTIVES DIDN’T NOTICE Walter Wiggins cross the street and head toward the Headley Building the moment he spotted them coming out onto the sidewalk. Nor did they notice the two Hispanic-looking men who crossed the little park in the square and walked toward the building, reaching it at just about the same time Wiggy did. The two men were Francisco Octavio Ortiz and Cesar Villada, and they had just arrived from Mexico this morning.
They got into the elevator with Wiggy, and all three men told the operator they wanted the fourth floor. The two Mexicans gave Wiggy a glance and then turned away. To Wiggy, they looked like spic hit men. He was beginning to regret having come here altogether. First two bulls in the elevator and now two big hitters. “Fourth floor,” the elevator operator said, and yanked open the door. Wiggy was looking out at the same reception room he’d seen half an hour ago, same fat white chick behind the desk. The two Latinos stepped out of the elevator ahead of him, no fuckin manners. They walked to the desk, Wiggy right behind them.
“We’re looking for a man who works here named Jerome Hoskins,” one of them said.
It came out, “We lookin for a man worrs here name Jerr-o Hosk.”
“Frank Holt,” the other one said.
The last name came out “Hote.”
Which was clear enough to Wiggy, who all at once began to think these two Spanish-American gentlemen were not two hitters but were instead two detectives from the Eight-Eight, investigating the murder of Frank Holt. He almost bolted for the elevator.
“I can’t understand what you’re saying,” the receptionist said, squinting.
“What’syour name?” the first man asked.
He made it sound like a threat, even though it came out with a Spanish accent as thick as guacamole.
“Charmaine,” she said.
“You know a man name Randoff Beegs?” he said. “In Texas?”
“Eagle Branch,” the other one said.
Wiggy was trying to remember if Frank Holt had told him he’d come up from Eagle Branch, Texas. All he could recall was him saying the hundred keys of cocaine had come up from Guenerando, Mexico. He wondered now if Guenerando was anywhere near Eagle Branch. He tried to appear as if he was not listening to the conversation between these two possible dicks and the fat chick behind the desk, but he was standing only three feet behind them, and it was impossible to appear small and insignificant when he weighed two hundred and ten pounds and stood an even six feet tall. He wondered if he should go sit on the bench against the wall, but then he’d miss this fascinating conversation about the man he’d shot in the head. So he stood where he was and pretended not to be eavesdropping. He would have whistled to show how nonchalant he was, but he thought that might only attract attention to him.
“What was that name again?” Charmaine asked. “In Texas?”
“Randolph Biggs,” the first man said.
It still came out “Randoff Beegs.”
